Static Shock Fan Fiction ❯ Banditos ❯ Cast Me Gently Into Morning ( Chapter 21 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

Extreme AU, OOC, non-historic West, violence...supernatural themes, violence.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN STATIC AND OTHER ASSOCIATED CHARACTERS!
Based somewhat on that thrilling vid-game, Darkwatch. Heh. My inspiration for something gory and dark. Oh, but I DO own original characters and creatures.

Tri: Nah...can’t have the loveable Eddy dying NOW! NOT WHEN HE’S NEEDED MOST!...in the next few chappies, of course! ^_^ It’s hard for me to let go of my...um...instigators.

I’m Alive: Well, It would have been hard to delve into that aspect, too, but...I’m very sorry you are familiar with this action. As for Hs, he’ll be pressured to reveal his side pretty soon. As for R, he’ll be learning pretty quick what he’s really needed, for. Unfortunately, being so long-winded, it’ll take me awhile to get there. >.<

A/N: BUT I HAVE A GOAL FOR THIS STORY, PEOPLE!...heh. It’s kinda weak, but...eventually, I’ll get to explaining what is going on....BUT I might break it up, some. >.< Damn my long-winded writeful-ness....oh...um...anybody know of any good One Piece fics? :P Damn that fandom...got me all distracted...



Chapter Twenty-One:
Cast Me Gently Into Morning



Fate. Destiny. Coincidence. Luck.

Richie was thinking about all four in a sort of dull, hazy reflection as he watched Hotstreak feed the cattle in the correl nearby. The moody braw of cattle broke the silence of morning, sheep adding their high-pitched complaints as they milled around throughout the property, having escaped their pen. There was a sharp cold in the air, but he braved it just to enjoy the freedom of being outside. His teeth chattered slightly, so he pulled the quilt tighter around himself. His wrists pulled with the movement, not yet healed completely, so he gentled the action as best as he could.

Sitting on the porch swing, he toed the wooden porch to get some motion going as he thought about his ‘luck’ so far. Then he began mulling over his still awed feeling of knowing that Junior was alive. Somehow, someway, that horrid man was still alive. How was this possible? He still questioned his own luck in survival, calculating the odds he’d faced just to see another wretched morning. In all collected misfortunes and horrors he’d endured since his arrival, he was vaguely amazed that survival had allowed him this far.

He’d lost track of days–but it had been late summer when he’d arrived in Alva’s Town; the sudden arrival of winter conditions had fallowed with the invasion. Time and sense of reality had since been lost when he found himself trying to survive.

Going over Junior’s surprise visit yesterday, Richie went over the words and actions exchanged. He kept wondering what he was going to do when he’d stopped himself from lifting a hand toward Junior. What action was he going to take? Touch him? Grab him? Push him away? He couldn’t even figure that out himself, lifting his hand to examine it curiously, as if the answer was there in his palm.

The man’s appearance, his obvious struggle to prove himself different from their last encounter, was something that Richie questioned. Richie knew nothing of Junior’s survival story, but the man had learned his during that short time he’d stayed. How was it that Junior survived? Richie had to wonder about it as he exhaled warm air, settling more firmly in the swing so that he could rest his head against the back of the chair.

Junior hadn’t mentioned anything about his father, or tried to enforce his slavery. He hadn’t even challenged Hotstreak when confronted–that was surprising most of all. Before, Junior had gone all out to break Richie and enforce his power over him; yesterday, Richie had seen that Junior had broken his own reasons and feelings to be cordial.

Was it all a trick? A ploy? Or just a glimpse of the human being’s ability to change and adjust according to rules of survival? Or had Junior just been too shocked to see Richie alive to react any other way, making his visit genuinely an ‘accident’?

Richie was lost in thought over this, focusing out everything else. Eventually, he grew tired of racking his brain for answers that he couldn’t figure out without having Junior actually there. Instead, he lifted a wrist, staring almost sightlessly at the strips he’d wrapped around the wound.

Out in the middle of country that had been more or less abandoned due to unnatural circumstances gave him the sense of feeling so utterly alone. He had always been surrounded by people–he was raised in New York City. To be closed off from all that was familiar, forced into near exile, was incredibly shocking. Add to all the traumas he’d endured, and it wasn’t at all surprising that stress and depression had hit hard.

After that wretched night with Hotstreak, he’d been unable to sleep. Not wanting to wake up once more to that horrible feeling of being touched that way. Every time he did manage to drift off, he awoke sharply once more at small sounds–the house settling, the sound of the redhead rummaging around in his own room...he just dreaded waking up at the touch from another person.

At the same while, thoughts and memories replayed over and over, crowding out anything pleasant and encouraging that he’d experienced throughout his years. He’d forgotten his parents, and he’d forgotten his home–all that was comforting was pinned out by the gruesome things he’d witnessed and experienced since his arrival by Alva. For a few days, all his mind played were the rapes, the beatings, the harsh and angry words, the deaths, and the demonic creatures. He didn’t leave his room, and simply laid in bed, lost to all the horrors that just seemed to consume him. He hadn’t any memory of how he’d managed to do things–it was as if his memories just took over him.

Finally, he’d snapped out of it–sometimes sobbing uncontrollably in his bed, forcing himself to accept Hotstreak’s advances, and needing, absolutely needing to let go of all that he’d held dear. When Hotstreak was gone, he’d thrown his books–held so precious for their comfort and attachment to his past in New York–into the wood stove. The picture of his parents had followed. With the destruction of what had been his promise for a good future and a reminder of who had been so loving to him had him determined to end his life.

It was just fate’s cruel hand to have Hotstreak return early from his daily activities to prevent even that.

Still, he had to wonder–the attempt had been made with serious intent. He’d made sure he was warm and near heat to encourage the blood flow, not wanting to waste time with heating water for a bath. But...there were other ways...why hadn’t he done them rather than try an attempt that had been thwarted?

He had to wonder now, with Junior’s appearance, if he’d been meant to fail. If he’d been meant to remain alive for some...purpose.

Why hadn’t he died? Why was he still alive?

With all the stacked horrors and misfortunes...he should have been dead. But...he wasn’t...there had to be a reason why this was so. Was there some bigger reason out there that was meant for him? Was there some sort of light at the end?

He couldn’t be alive...he shouldn’t be.

But there was a reason why he was still here!

Propelled by this continuing line of thinking, Richie began to feel warm. Not by material or physical warmth–but by something much more greater than anything tangible. Junior’s unexpected and surprising appearance had meant something. He had to wonder if he would have began thinking this way hadn’t the younger Alva showed up. With a suddenly racing pulse, he realized that Junior’s unexpected visit had prompted something within him he wouldn’t have felt if not for this line of questioning internally. He would still be lost in the suffocating haze of depression and suicidal thoughts, not questioning the whys.

He startled once he realized that he wasn’t alone. So lost in thought, he hadn’t been aware that Hotstreak had sat next to him on the swing, an arm stretching out behind him to pull him close. Still, despite his changed line of thinking, Richie tensed in that possessive hold, more aware of the man that scared him most. Hotstreak may demonstrate gentle and loving behavior and thinking toward him, but there was a darkness behind all of it that was unpredictable. There was no knowledge of this man that assured him any encouraged line of thinking or trust. Hotstreak may have shared some stories of his past to appear cheerful, jolly and just as dim-witted as everyone said he was, but Richie’s way of thinking, cultured by traumatic abuse, told he could trust no one. No one was trustworthy. That darkness of Hotstreak’s was something that would keep Richie at a continued distance until Richie could either realize his intended fate, or...or otherwise.

He wasn’t sure what ‘otherwise’ was. That was something out of his reach.

“I’m glad you’re outside, today,” Hotstreak said quietly, a sort of content expression on his face. He ran his fingers with gentle decision through Richie’s hair, contemplating the strands. “But don’t be tryin’ anythin’ strenuous.”

Richie doubted he had any energy or need to do anything of the sort. He watched some sheep mill about with their dazed expressions, Charger grazing in a field just past the barn. He kept himself from flinching away from Hotstreak’s touch, but his skin seemed to curl at contact.

Still, Hotstreak pulled his fingers from his hair, sitting up so that he wasn’t holding Richie against him. Tiredly, he rubbed his face, pushing his hat off his head. Richie watched him quietly, taking in the obvious exhaustion of hard physical labor. He had done his share of staring and studying his captor, and while the man’s intentions were hateful and insane, he did recognize a sort of sadness upon remembering how he felt the very first time he met Hotstreak.

He had found him so physically ideal, had been in awe of his eyes; he’d enjoyed the sound of Hotstreak’s voice, had imagined him to be so capable of good things. He recalled wanting to see the redhead again after that first night; had enjoyed his touch that next day. All those things that had given him a small joy after a hateful experience, and...to have it all ripped away because of Hotstreak’s selfishness, his lack of moral...now, knowing what he was capable of, Richie just felt aching disappointment and sickness.

He stared out at the fields that were open to them. Something small inside of him wondered if they could live in solitude out here. And...and he’d have to. He had no choice. And...quite frankly...he was too tired to fight.

He would have to live the rest of his life with this man. Screw the constant hope of anything else. He wondered, if he just submitted and dulled himself to Hotstreak’s concept of peaceable living, if he could somehow be somewhat human with it. Could he, after some time, eventually warm up to the man? Accept all his madness and glory just for the sake of it?

He wondered about this, trying to picture himself going along as a mindless love slave–or whatever it was Hotstreak wanted him to be–and just living...peacefully. With this farm...with their cattle and sheep and one horse...with this house and all the comforts within?

Hotstreak rested his elbows on his knees, twisting slightly to look back at him. He felt that heavy weight in his stomach as he realized that things, no matter how much he wanted them, wouldn’t be the way he had thought. Richie still stared off into space with that faraway expression; he always tensed up. In bed, he was mechanic and rigid, and above it all–he’d never seen another smile. Another grateful and thankful expression.

That one time he was given such a thing was in the Lakota camp, when he’d given Richie his books. That was the only time...and...it didn’t seem as if he would be granted that miracle again. Because of all his wrongdoings and bad decisions.

It seriously hurt how it felt he never did anything right. He was always fucking things up.

With that eternally black feeling weighing down his soul, he forced himself up and away from the swing. He walked away, Richie watching him leave with an indifferent expression on his face.

010101010110

That night, Richie sat at the edge of his bed, still questioning his involvement with this life. The silence had been shattered with the frustrated screams, growls and snarls from the Things outside. That first night of their arrival, Richie would admit he was terrified. But the Things kept up their visits with sporadic arrivals either at night, or during the day. He hadn’t seen them in broad daylight–but he could feel their eyes on them as the pair of them wandered around outside.

He had to wonder why they wouldn’t venture outside during the day. The Things only attacked at night, and even as they knew they couldn’t get in, they were still angry at being unable to enter.

He listened to their frustrated and frantic efforts to get into the house, calmly wondering why they just didn’t attack during the day when they left the house. Maybe they operated on some sort of magic...some sort of–

Were they intelligent? Were...could he somehow communicate with them?

...how would he know if he didn’t try?

He looked over at the window, taking a deep breath. He was suddenly filled with need on wanting to know why the things never attacked during the day. Why they feared sage and sweetgrass. He pushed away from the bed, looking over his shoulder at the open door. He wasn’t sure what Hotstreak was doing in his own room, but....

He walked over to the window, hearing the sudden shift of weight on the roof. It felt...it felt as if someone was watching him as he approached, swallowing hard. Things seemed to go silent for a few moments as he stared at the latch, then expectation hit him hard.

He opened the latch, pushing the window up, the sharp chill of night drifting in to hit him with a forceful push of cold. Staring out at the darkness outside, he listened to the utter and suffocating silence of the outside. Animals and insects alike refused to move or announce their presence when these Things were present. The eerie feeling grew on him as he stood there, thinking of something to say.

Finally, in an annoyed tone, he asked, “If you know you can’t get in, why do you keep on trying?”

Hearing nothing, he scowled at the outer edges of the window, hearing nothing more of the frustrated turns of the doorknobs, the scratch of nails on wood. His eyes darted to every corner of the open window, his fingers lightly curled–he swallowed again, listening for any telltale sounds of the Things’ presence, or incoming attack.

He was scared–he wouldn’t deny that. But curiosity proved stronger than that base survival instinct.

He jerked at the sharp creak of wood just outside his window–the obvious sensation of knowing that he wasn’t alone.

Eventually, you’ll come outside, came the voice–not from the outside and taken by ear, but in a sort of low, accented whisper deep inside his being. It gave Richie the feeling that he wasn’t alone in his own skin–that presence seemed to fill the entire room with its invisible force.

Hairs stood on end, but to hear it speak...to know that it was intelligent, gave him a strange sort of hope.

“If you were smart enough, you’d have found a way to get us to go outside during the night,” he said evenly.

Fire doesn’t work well in the winter, the voice said sullenly.

“I don’t understand. You’ve tried?”

We are allergic to fire, it confessed.

The confession was amusing. But it gave Richie a sense of feeling that these things, conscienceable and intelligent, were actually filled with limits and restrictions than he previously believed. Making the Things tangible to injury gave him hope.

“That’s unfortunate.”

Very. Now...be kind. We’re a busy people. Kindly step outside so we can finish our job here.

“Sorry, as bad as things are going, I’d rather not,” Richie said, and he truly bewildered himself as to why he didn’t bother with that suggestion when he was so hateful of his life.

It was because of Junior, he thought, thinking of the man. If he hadn’t come along...

“Let us talk plainly,” came the voice aloud, startling Richie. It was a low, gravelly sound–as if tinged by billions of cigarettes. “We are here to destroy you. You hate your life. Let us compromise. I’ll make it quick, and you’ll never have to worry again about that man visiting you in the night.”

Richie felt his face flush with shame and embarrassment upon knowing that these Things were aware of what was happening.

“You think he’ll stop? He hasn’t, before. And when has a human being respected your wishes? I’m sure you’re quite tired of it all. I heard they don’t do that stuff in Heaven.”

This was said with a smirk. Heavy sarcasm.

And despite his humiliation, Richie felt a smugness in him that these Things couldn’t get to him and were frustrated with it.

He tilted his head to the side. “What are you? Can I see you?”

The Thing was quiet for a moment, as if questioning his words with a puzzled sort of air. Then, there was a heavy shift on wood, as if it were joined by another.

“The light bothers us,” another voice confessed, in a much lower bass. Tilted with a lisp.

Richie looked over at the oil based lamps that were lit throughout his room, then looked at the window. He began debating his curiosity and survival instinct as they battled; one wanting him to kill most of the light to see this Thing, and the other wanting him to shut the window and shut up.

Curiosity was stronger.

He killed off the flame in two of the lamps, leaving one burning near the washroom. The room was very dim, but light enough for him to see clearly enough where he was going and what was there. Looking at the window once more, listening for Hotstreak, he waited to see the Things.

Moments passed, and he began questioning his curiosity when two pinpoints of red blinked at him through the inky blackness outside his window. Stark fear filled him at that moment, the image of red burned into his eyelids as the pinpoints of light stared at him with unblinking activity. Darkness shifted around those pinpoints, and even as he questioned how a being could seemingly float outside his window to give that position of standing, Richie stared right back.

Nothing was said, and Richie squinted behind his glasses to try and see more of it. Two more pinpoints of red appeared suddenly in the upper right corner of the window, telling him the other was peering at him from a position just above the jutting frame.

He looked back at the first set of eyes, a little startled to see yet another set at the lower left corner of his window.

“Why can’t you come in?” he asked curiously, the question more burning than any other at that moment.

“We’re allergic to weeds,” the first confessed, its voice much more clearer than before. “Makes us sneeze. We do not like to sneeze.”

“To sweetgrass? But...I don’t understand. How can a weed, unblessed by a church, keep you demons at bay?”

“The church has nothing to do with us.”

“We don’t like the church,” the set of eyes from the left interrupted.

Hisses erupted, and that set disappeared suddenly.

“That seems a little cliche,” Richie said, frowning with a sort of puzzled frown. “If you are so disagreeable with church, then–”

“It does not matter to us,” the first said. Little by little, pale white and pink emerged, until Richie was seeing the First’s face. Distracting tattoos and glint of silver proved distracting as it said, “what matters is that you need to be destroyed. I can do it quickly and without pain.”

Richie’s sense of purpose was strengthened–just knowing that his death was all they were seeking. That this wasn’t random.

The First’s lips pulled into a strange smile. “Would you like to continue living your life like this? With the way he is, do you think that he’ll just continue to let you go? What of the next man that comes along? Do you think that he would just kill him and let it be done? How do you know that he doesn’t blame you for all their stares? You probably do not even know just how much he thinks about you–probably don’t even know how much he fears you leaving him.”

Richie listened to all of this, picturing the man the First spoke of. It chilled him to hear these words, hissed with spite and truth, yet...he knew it was all a ploy for the creature to convince him to come outside.

“How many of you are there?” he asked quietly, totally disregarding the First’s words.

Its face screwed into that of a disgusted sneer, and pulled back into the darkness, shifting. “You make him insecure, that one. There’ll be a day when he realizes that your words, your voice is no longer needed. How do you know you’ll survive when he cuts out your tongue so you cannot speak to any other? How do you know you’ll miss the sensation of feeling the grass and dirt underfoot when he cuts off your feet to keep you from leaving him? How do you know you’ll miss the sight of your animals when he decides to scoop out your eyes with one the spoons you mix your coffee with? Do you think that he does not think this?”

Chilling, making Richie’s stomach clench, he could feel stark fear eating at his insides as he questioned the gruesome musings.

While he couldn’t deny those things, because he knew there was darkness in Hotstreak that propelled this prompt, he knew what the Thing was doing.

“Are there more of you? And how is it you can only operate in the dark? How is it you’re still alive? I’m sure I shot a couple of you–is that why there is only three of you?”

“Every time you’re not looking, he’s wondering how else he can take you apart. He’s just waiting for you to trust him–”

“Were you once human? How is it that you live? Were you raised in the underworld? Do crosses hurt you? Do you frequent cemeteries? Feed on human flesh? Are you–?”

“Stupid human!” the First hissed in frustration. Eyes widened with rising impatience. “Don’t you understand that it’s your life that he’s wanting to destroy? Don’t you understand that–”

“I already understand that human beings are wretched, evil creatures. That their ugly animosity resides deep in the cover of their stupid flesh. I hate people–there is nothing good in any of them that claim to be what they say they are. I know this. I won’t make that mistake again. I won’t be that naive! As for what they do to me, I don’t care, anymore. I just don’t. Now, answer my questions!”

The First gave him a long look of impatient annoyance, shifting once more. “He’ll disfigure you. He’ll–”

“Then I’d rather it was one person hurting me, and not many. NOW...the threat to my life isn’t something of importance. But...but I have to wonder why you’re so focused on destroying me. Can you answer to that?”

“Human life is to be extinguished. All are vile–”

“And of course I agree with you.”

“...and...just...die. You’ll need to die. Come here.”

“I will not!” Richie scoffed. “I want to know why it is that I have to die when all the crimes committed were against me! Now, why do I have to pay for others’ stupid mistakes? I want to know why!”

“Your life, and his, are about as valuable as all the others! Humans need to be extinguished, and your is the only ones in this territory that has been swept clean!”

“Lies,” he huffed. “You’re just desperate to say things to try and convince me that I need to die. Frankly, I see no reason why I have to when I suffered through a great deal of things that were unfairly rendered. Why don’t you just kill him and make it all even? After all, what can I do to the lot of you that would make you feel threatened?”

Hisses once more, and the First bared its teeth.

“I completely agree that humans are vile. So, I just don’t understand that–”

The pinpoints of light disappeared suddenly, the shifting weight telling him that the things were shifting position. They were leaving his window. With a dismayed denial, he rushed to the window, peering out. All he saw were three abnormal beings leaping from the roof, heading for the ground. He was very disappointed to lose this, clutching the window tightly as he went over the conversation with a frustrated sort of air.

He was jerked forcefully away from the window, Hotstreak cursing at him as he shut and locked it. Richie was startled by his appearance, haven’t even heard him coming in. Of course, he had to wonder if this man’s presence had been the reason for the creatures’ sudden disappearance, and was bewildered by it. So many questions, so many things–! And it was all so frustrating and fascinating at the same time.

“Why are they scared of you?” he demanded as Hotstreak looked back at him with puzzled reaction. “And how is it that you know of these things? Yes, you’ve told me you had experience with them before, but–!”

“You were talkin’ to them? How you do that?” Hotstreak asked with that same puzzled tone.

“When was your first monster encounter? You never told me that,” Richie pressed. “And these friends you speak of? Where are they? How did you–?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Hotstreak held up his hands, absolutely bewildered at this flare of life. After so many days of seeing Richie so suicidal and depressed, seeing this complete change had thrown Hotstreak for a loop. “What’s wit’ all these questions?”

“I just want to know! Why are they so determined to kill us when we’re the only beings here? Especially me? I didn’t do anything to anybody, yet these things are willing to come by here, night after night to try and kill us–me! Why am I so important? And why can’t they come out during the day when we’re outside? And–!”

“I don’t know!” Hotstreak cried, hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the rapid fire words that were being shot at him. “Geez, chill out. I don’t know these things.”

Frustrated, Richie stared at him. “That night in Runner’s Valley? Who’s Caine?”

“Eh?” Hotstreak stared right back. The boy had been separated from them. How did he know...? “I...it’s a...guy. In charge of it all...”

“So there is just one man leading the forces of darkness? And...and this ‘him’ you’re always talking about? Who’s that?”

“...Uh...Caine. This guy that...uh...”

“What sort of army is this? How did it form? Where are the creatures from? Does this prove a Heaven and a Hell? Are they from Hell? Does this mean that–?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Hotstreak screamed, startling Richie quiet.

Richie frowned at him, chewing fitfully on the inside of his cheek. He studied Hotstreak’s frustrated expression, clearly detailing his surprise at the barrage of questions. More just popped into place, and he realized that there was a great deal of things that the redhead hadn’t told him. Things just seemed to crowd and bunch in him at that moment–colliding with the sense of urgency that made it all just more frustrating. He needed answers–the very same way thirst and hunger affected a human.

Fitfully, his fingertips danced over the bandages of his wrists, just lost in gripping thought. He continued staring up at Hotstreak, not really seeing him as a vile piece of shit that he hated, but as an unopened book. Full of information that, if read and translated right, would help him with all his unanswered questions.

Strangely, he had to resist the gripping urge to rip the man apart with his own violent fury to see if the answers lay inside that six-foot-four wall of muscle. It was a very outlandish urge–something that he attributed to the violent need to know feeling that was prompting an override over all bases of previous fear.

Hotstreak waved his arms about. “Don’t open that, no mo’. Don’t talk ta them. They’ll talk ya inta doin’ somethin’ you’ll regret. They can kill you, you know...”

“The fact that they want to, that they’re so determined to is what interests me. I want to know why.”

“Because we’re the only ones out here!”

“Then why aren’t they trying to kill you?”

“THEY ARE! THEY HAVE SINCE IT ALL STARTED!”

“How did it all start? When? Why? What–?”

“God, SHUT UP!”

Richie went quiet, staring at him pensively while Hotstreak tried to block out those still startling memories of the train robbery that went awry. Feeling sullen and angry about once more reliving that moment, his fault of the entire devastation and situation of the invasion began welling up once more.

He waited while Hotstreak battled those private demons, of managing to push away the guilt and the faults to the side to face him once more.

“Why you wantin’ to know all this?” he finally spit, voice laced with heavy anger and impatience.

“Because...I...don’t know how it all started.”

“No one does!”

“You do!”

“...I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Richie stamped his foot in frustration, not even knowing that he did. “Then you do know how it all started!”

“It wasn’t my fault! It just happened!”

“Why can’t you tell me how it all started!”

“BECAUSE I DON’T WANNA!”

“That’s–! Foolishness! I need to know why and how it started! I need to know what you know!”

“Why?! What’s it to you? Like you kin do anythin’ about it!”

Richie stilled at that. That was another question, and more was following. Yes, he did want to know why and how–he did have more questions after that. But...but once he had the information, what to do with it?

That wall was hard, and it hurt to hit it.

All this awakening was giving him a massive headache, and he removed his glasses to rub at his eyes.

He then turned away from Hotstreak, walking over to sit at the edge of his bed. He stared off at the far corner of his room while Hotstreak watched him sullenly, absolutely bewildered to this changed personality. While it was absolutely nice to see that Richie still had some life to him, what was more bewildering was that he was able to communicate with those monsters and suddenly...suddenly he had a purpose that Hotstreak wasn’t yet able to understand.

And...it clicked. It really did.

Somehow, it involved him. Somehow, the feeling and utterly hot sensation of knowing that he did something right hit him with a forceful blow over the back of his head. He was hit with the same headache that Richie had at that moment, and he reached up to grip his head with an angsty groan of pain. Both of them hunched over in pain, gripping their heads–more involved with their own pain to notice the other’s.

Hotstreak left his room without any further comment or look, and Richie just concentrated on himself, curling up on his bed to somehow drown out that pain that seemed to rattle and upset all that he knew.